


Almost

by kurohaofficial



Category: Monster Prom (Visual Novel)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mutual Pining, Rejection, Slow Burn, anyways i just wrote this bc i was sad after damien rejected me, at first at least, it's not in character and probably not good but whatever im sad, leave me alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 14:03:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurohaofficial/pseuds/kurohaofficial
Summary: Damien says no to Oz for prom.Oz is upset.Hilarity ensues.





	Almost

**Author's Note:**

> as said in the tags i wrote this after being rejected by damien (four times in a row)  
> i will probably continue but do not expect the updates to have any sort of schedule  
> if anyone even reads this

“Fuck no.”

Oz’s heart stops.  
“ _... Huh?_ ”

“Look, dude,” growls Damien. “I don’t know how much clearer I can be. Not gonna happen, weirdo,” he says, monotonous. Like Oz should have known this was going to be the outcome.  
Damien can’t help but chuckle as the confusion on the eldritch’s face says what his speechlessness doesn’t.  
“Oh, all that shit we were doin’?” The prince laughs, a wicked grin splitting his cheeks and baring sharp teeth. “C’mon, use that pretty little brain of yours,”  
“ _You were trying to get in my pants,_ ” sighs Oz, realising. He berates himself for being so easily manipulated. It almost worked. Almost.  
“You got it. But, y’know, I…”

Damien starts to continue, but is unable to as Oz takes his leave, trying his best to not look dejected. It fails. The demon laughs, and disappears. Likely to set something ablaze.

\--

Saturday night comes, and with it, a feeling that Oz has known before. A familiar bedfellow of his, at this point, the feeling just walks in to make itself at home and fucks Oz all over again.  
A bedfellow by the unfortunate name of “Loneliness.”  
He spends prom night getting plastered, watching shitty comedies, drinking shitty vodka, nearly by himself. All he has are his shitty, shitty feelings to keep him company. But otherwise, he is alone.  
_Alone,_ he thinks. The word bounces in his brain, unstoppable in its path.  
_I wish I were with Da-..._  
He stops for a good ten seconds, his mind going blank, then halts the thought before it can finish by downing the rest of the Mason jar he’d filled with his shitty human brand of badly flavored vodka.  
Whatever. Human or not, it gets the job done. Nobody that he cares about would care.

_Get it together, Oz. You can’t pine for that asshole, you know it. Get over it. Get over him._

He stares at the jar… and sets it down, ignoring the desire to throw it. Such boldness, he thinks. Wonder where you got that from. Can’t believe you spent the last six weeks trying to date that bastard...  
Oz isn’t handling well, that much is clear. He dumps the rest of the bottle into the jar, setting the bottle aside to break over someone’s head later. Preferably Damien’s, that stupid, lowly, sexy bastard of a demon.  
The image made him giggle. And once he started, in his drunken stupor, he couldn’t stop.  
His horrible mouth opens in a genuine laugh, cheeks red. Countless rows of teeth bare themselves, only serving to escalate the terrible, beautiful chorus of howling joy. Usually, anyone in the immediate vicinity would be struck with the need to laugh and scream and cry and run and dance all at once, but...

_I’m alone._

The thought sobers his joy quickly, and in response, he chugs the very recently refilled jar, letting the burn of it going down his throat distract him. Now he throws the bottle and the jar at the tile floor at his feet, letting it shatter, shards quickly digging into his skin, oozy black ichor seeping out from the fresh wounds. A minor form of self-harm, the tiny part of his brain that can think realises.  
_“Whatever,”_ he slurs to nobody. Nobody, nobody, nobody.  
He turns up the TV, melting into the couch.  
It’s going to be a long night.

\--

Sunday morning.  
Sunday morning, and Oz has to face the fact that he still exists, barely holding form on his furniture. He’s already starting to stain it with an inky blackness. Happens sometimes, when he’s in this big of a rut.

His alarm startles him into full consciousness, the inkiness pulling back up to his body, the alarm a string of comical screams. He very quickly is made acutely aware of the pounding in his head, the ache in his chest, and the sharp, stinging pain in his legs; Headache, heartache, and broken glass respectively. He decides he won’t do anything about the first and third things to ignore the second.

_You weren’t even dating him, Oz. Why are you this upset? Move on._

Despite the fact that he reiterates this to his unfortunately still-beating heart irritates him. But as much as he may try to tell himself this, the feelings demand to be felt, whether he likes it or not.  
Whatever. Distraction time.  
He picks up his phone, ignoring the strain it puts on his eyes.

He cringes as he sees a massive amount of texts, from at least six different people. Only two of which are from friends of his. Okay, most are from Vicky. Must’ve been worried after he didn’t show up prom last night... It's not like he told her Damien rejected him. He wanted his friends to have fun.

[ **TEXT** → Vicky @ 1:43AM] Oz???? Answer your phone????????

[ **TEXT** → Amira @ 12:26AM] Oz, if I find you on any dating sites I swear I’ll come to your house and break your phone

[ **MISSED CALL (48)** → Vicky]

The rest of them are from unknown numbers, and… A few notifications from Growlr. He assumes that’s where the rest of the texts came from… He starts putting together the pieces of last night. Or, he would, if his head wasn’t fucking killing him.

He checks the time. 11am, or thereabouts. He doesn’t care to be sure, and he won’t.  
_“Fuck this. I’m going back to sleep,”_ he grumbles to the empty air, laying back down on the couch and, this time, curling up in a blanket at his feet.  
To his relief, he falls asleep quickly, though it isn’t exactly restful.

 

Two hours pass before a knock on the door sounds, and he groans as he wakes from a very upsetting slumber. _“Key’s under the mat,”_ he yells, not bothering to get up.

There’s silence. But seconds later, the door opens to allow three other monsters entry. Amira doesn’t even say hello, just goes straight for Oz’s phone, while Vicky heads to the kitchen. Brian, never one for many words, goes straight for the broom closet to sweep up the mess his friend made last night. None of them greet him, just set into doing various things to care for him.

He laughs, then groans in pain. Lifelong friends. Three people in this world that Oz knows for sure that he can trust.

And like good lifelong friends, none of them ask about his sorry state, and none of them will. They know what happened, and they know the wound is fresher than the organic, unethically-sourced vegan blood that Liam de Lioncourt eats, despite the fact that it runs his pockets dry.

After a minute or so of fishing around in the kitchen, Vicky brings Oz a glass of water and some painkillers, which he groans at and refuses. She huffs.

“Ozzie. You have to take the painkillers.”  
“ _I don’t have to do anything, you know._ ”  
“ **Oz.** Please? For me.”

He sighs, and sits up enough to take the painkillers and drink his water. She seems satisfied at this, as Amira sets his phone down. “I blocked everyone you texted last night,” she states, taking a seat in the space Brian has cleared of glass. “Let me see your legs. Don’t think I don’t see all this glass,” she prods. Oz pulls up his blanket enough, over his head, to let her see the scene. It isn’t pretty, but it isn’t bleeding. “Oh boy,” she huffs. She sends Brian to grab the tweezers and gauze from Oz’s cabinet, to which the zombie obliges, after disposing of the broken glass.

Thankfully, Oz is about to pass out again, while Amira spends the next few hours picking shards out of his legs and feet, sure the be quiet the whole time as she and Vicky talk about the situation. They both know it’s not going to go well for Oz, but they vow to be there. Brian grunts, adding his support.  
It’s not long before they wind down and go to sleep around Oz.  
When he awakes, he finds his friends splayed around him -- Brian leaning back and sleeping against his arm, Vicky draped over him, and Amira resting at the end of the couch. His legs are bandaged and throbbing slightly in pain, but it’s better than the continued, stabbing pain that he was dealing with otherwise.  
With his friends, Oz feels a little less achy. A little less pained. He almost forgets about Damien.

Almost. But almost isn’t ever really good enough.


End file.
